


Enchantment

by taylor_tut



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Evil Morgana (Merlin), Gen, Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Sick Character, Sick Merlin (Merlin), Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25187791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: This is an idea I've had for a while now and ended up writing as a get-well fic for a friend on Tumblr. Basically, Morgana enchants Merlin to spike a fever every time he's in proximity with Arthur, worsening the longer he's near him. On their way to break the curse, they're attacked by bandits and Arthur breaks his leg, which means that Merlin has to basically carry him the rest of the way even though it's killing him. It's not as dark as it sounds!
Comments: 12
Kudos: 206





	Enchantment

Merlin pushes off Arthur again with a muttered apology, barely hearing the yelp of pain that is elicited when he’s forced to put weight on his certainly-broken ankle. Arthur finds his balance, luckily, before he falls (though it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that since he injured his ankle in this quest to undo the curse Morgana has put on Merlin), and he’s helpless to do anything but watch as Merlin steadies himself against a tree with one hand to his forehead. 

“Easy, Merlin,” Arthur calls. “Just sit down.”

Merlin shakes his head, wipes sweat from his forehead and takes a few deep breaths. Arthur watches as the deep red flush slowly drains from his face. 

“I’m alright,” he says, and it’s not convincing in the slightest; no more convincing than it was when he’d collapsed helping Arthur dress two mornings ago and recovered in the time it took for Arthur to get Gaius, no more convincing than it was when he’d fainted completely while standing closely behind Arthur at a peace treaty banquet and Gwen had rushed to his side to confirm he was burning up with fever. Of course, with Uther residing over the event, Arthur had been required to stay until the end of the banquet, but by the time he’d snuck away to Gaius’ chambers to check on Merlin, the two of them had figured out that it was an enchantment: every time Merlin was in proximity with Arthur, he’d grow weak, ill, spike a fever, and eventually, if they didn’t separate, he’d die. The only way to break the enchantment was with a trip up a mountain together to drink water from some magical spring, but honestly, all Arthur had heard was that Merlin was in grave danger, Morgana was most likely involved, and that there was a cure. 

So they’d set out the following morning, taking the horses and riding a safe enough distance away from one another that Merlin had been chatting like nothing was wrong and Arthur had acted annoyed the entire time. 

This had been all well and good for the first three hours of the journey, until bandits had jumped them, scaring off the horses and shoving Arthur down a short but rocky cliff. Merlin had managed to hide out until, in a freak accident, one of the bandits’ own horses had panicked, dragging their leader by a bag strap that had conveniently gotten caught up in her saddle and forcing them all to retreat. 

Since then, Merlin had been half-carrying Arthur in increasingly short spurts, stopping and distancing when he started to feel faint or when Arthur told him that the fever was getting too high and he needed to take some space and drink water. The trip was now taking three times as long as they’d meant it to, but with the Knights away escorting the members of the peace committee home (the last thing they needed was to be attacked on their way back to their Kingdom by the King’s old ward, that’s sure to start a war), no one would come searching for them any time soon. 

Arthur hates how helpless the whole thing makes him feel. It’s bad enough to have to rely upon Merlin to support his weight, but knowing that every moment that he does is slowly killing him--it’s driving him mad. 

It’s MAKING him mad. 

He tries not to show the irrational anger. 

“Drink more,” he commands, throwing the water skin right at Merlin’s head. Predictably, he doesn’t catch it, and Arthur rolls his eyes at the petulant outcry that it elicits. 

“Thanks,” Merlin says, a sarcastic bite to his tone that lets Arthur know he’s not too far gone. And he drinks. “Sorry about pushing you. Again.” 

“I’m beginning to think you’re enjoying it.” 

Merlin offers a tired smile. “Well, find a silver lining where you can, I suppose.” 

“Merlin!” 

‘I’m kidding!” he laughs, then his face falls the slightest bit. “I didn’t actually hurt you, did I?” 

Again, Arthur rolls his eyes. “It’s already broken, Merlin; I wouldn’t worry so much about injuring me. Just keep focused on yourself, yeah? If you faint and hit your head, I can’t carry you.” 

“I know,” he replies. He’d not properly sat down, just sort of squatted for a few moments near the trees, but now, Merlin stands, blinking a few times as if testing it before moving back toward Arthur. He frowns. 

“That wasn’t much time,” he objects. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m ready,” Merlin lies easily. It’s certainly a lie. He’s constantly shaking with chills from a fever that never breaks for long and Arthur can tell by their slowing pace and the way he winces when they go over rougher terrain that his body is aching and sore. On the few occasions that the fever has lowered his guard enough to make him be honest, for once, he’s admitted to a pounding headache and an ever-present fatigue that’s got to make this whole ordeal miserable. 

Still, when he’s got any sense of wherewithal about him, he doesn’t complain, even though Arthur wouldn’t give him (much) hell about it if he did. 

This is awful. 

To make it worse, every time Arthur curses in pain when his leg was jostled or asks for a moment to rest because it’s throbbing too much to think straight anymore, Merlin is there, present and physically there, with a hand on his back and a kind word whispered so softly that Arthur could hear it and pretend that he hadn’t. 

Merlin swoops under Arthur’s arm again, fever-hot and slick with sweat, shivering and, this time, unable to bite back a quiet, pained groan as he lifts with his aching back. 

Arthur doesn’t apologize; can’t apologize. It’s not his fault, anyway, and Merlin would tell him as much. 

He feels guilty, but he will not make that Merlin’s burden to deal with. 

This time around, they only make it about ten minutes before Merlin’s teeth start chattering with chills, and possibly another ten after that before Merlin’s steps begin to weave and stagger. 

“Merlin,” he calls, more gently than he’s comfortable with, “hey, you--alright; alright. Sitting.” He’s interrupted by Merlin’s knees threatening to give out, so he puts on a brave face and balances as well as he can on one foot while he guides Merlin to the ground. He curses when he pulls away to find Merlin’s eyes shut, his breathing ragged and clearly pained. Arthur lingers for only a moment to get him lying down and to press a hand quickly to his forehead--scorching, he already knew, and he finds no comfort in the reassurance--before crawling backward in an awkward sort of crablike shuffle to sit a safe distance away from him. 

Merlin breathes. 

Arthur waits. 

As he waits, he thinks of all the times that Merlin has tended him while injured or ill, always with a concerned sort of hovering that never makes him feel nervous and with a litany of tinctures from Gaius and, when those didn’t work immediately, a cold cloth to press to his forehead and neck. Merlin always has a cool bath ready for him when the fever breaks and a change of clothes prepared, since he knows how uncomfortable it is to have to sit in sweaty, dirty pyjamas afterwards. 

He can’t help but wonder how awful it must feel to be trapped in this rapid cycle of rising and breaking fevers, how his clothes must feel even more terrible than they look against Merlin’s sick-sensitive skin. 

And he’s helpless, because getting near enough to Merlin to be able to manage the raging fever would only see it rising, and being able to offer a reassuring touch to ground him in his delirious haze would only make it worse. 

Just when being alone with his thoughts is beginning to become unbearable, Merlin wakes with a gasp. He blinks hard for a few moments, as if trying to figure out where he is, but when he sees Arthur, it clicks, and he closes his eyes tiredly and lets his head fall back against the ground. Arthur feels a bit of fear well up in his stomach. 

“Talk to me, Merlin. How are you doing, really?” Merlin begins to sit up, but Arthur shakes his head, forces against the instinctive urge to go over there and put a hand against his chest because that’s the only thing that stops Merlin’s stubborn arse, anyway. “Don’t even try to sit up yet,” he commands. “I will tell you when you can sit up.” 

He can see Merlin’s eyebrow quirk without seeing it. “Of course, Sire,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Should I hold my breath, as well, until you dictate I should breathe?” 

“Shut UP, Merlin,” he tries to hold back laughter but fails. “You’re insufferable. And you never answered the question.” 

Merlin shrugs, apparently finally exhausted enough to be a bit honest. “Been better,” he admits. “Been worse.” 

“Always for my benefit, it seems.” 

Now, Merlin stiffens, not accepting that statement for the surface-level joke it isn’t. “Arhur, this isn’t your fault. It’s Morgana’s.”

“And I suppose she’d have cast this enchantment on you had you not been mixed up with me, then.” 

“I think,” Merlin says, the fever and exhaustion giving him a confidence he always lacks right up until he’s knocking on death’s door, “that what you mean to say is, ‘thank you for your loyalty.’”

Arthur hesitates. “You know that I appreciate your loyalty.” 

“I do,” Merlin emphasizes, “but if you’re going to be a great King one day, you’re going to have to stop apologizing when you mean to say, ‘thank you.’” 

“You always seem to have a lot of advice for me when you’re a breath away from dying.” 

“It never seems to sink in, otherwise.” 

“Think you can sit up?” 

Merlin chuckles just a little. “I thought that was your decision,” he teases, but he pushes up onto his elbows without wavering, and when Arthur scans his face, he does look better than he had, not quite as pale or flushed. 

“Finish the water, and when you’re feeling better, prepare some dinner; you need to eat. We’ll camp here for tonight. Seems as good a spot as any.” 

Merlin frowns. “The sun’s just starting to go down.” 

“Merlin, you’ve spent the better part of the day carrying your own weight plus mine and half delirious with fever. I can see it in your face--you’re exhausted.” 

He looks pointedly away. “I’d like to check your leg again,” he says. “It might need more salve. The bruising and swelling was quite bad earlier.” 

“I can tend that.” 

Merlin stares at him incredulously, and Arthur rolls his eyes. “After you’ve eaten, then, if you must,” he relents. Slowly, painfully, Merlin pushes to his feet after swallowing the rest of the water. 

“I think the fever’s broken again,” he announces, “so I’ll start on dinner.” 

Arthur watches him closely as he begins to prepare their dinner and tries not to feel guilty about all the things he’s asking of him, tries to focus on the throbbing of his own leg, which never really went away, because it’s less uncomfortable than watching Merlin pushing himself to death, yet again, for his sake. 


End file.
